Officer Friendly
by The Receiving end of Sirens
Summary: Lori died in a car crash, and with Carl to look after, Rick needs a job that isn't as high a risk as being an officer...of the law. Luckily for him, he found a job that permitted him to wear his ten-gallon hat, even if it required taking everything else off. Stripper!Rick. Daryl/Rick.
1. Preface

**This is AU. Daryl/Rick. There will be some one-sided Shane/Rick as well. Uh… No warnings except two really hot dudes lusting after each other.**

**I don't own the Walking Dead.**

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**Officer Friendly/Preface**

Rick inhaled deeply, catching himself in the midst of a sob and managed to hold back before the sound could wake his son who had fallen asleep on his lap only moments prior.

Carl.

_Christ._

What the hell was he going to do?

The weary man carded a hand through his son's identically unruly hair, moving on to the youth's forehead and easing the crease that grief had placed there. Carl. His son—his alone. Heat gathered at the back of his nose, causing a chain reaction of pooling liquid in his eyes, a tightening of his throat and slightly jumbled thoughts.

Lori, the mother of his child and his wife since they were eighteen, was dead.

His vision grew hazy and he allowed a couple of stray drops to slide down his cheeks, mindful of his son, and ensuring that they didn't fall on his sleeping angel's face. He glanced down to the pale, tearstained cheeks of Carl and tensed his muscles to keep from shaking.

What the _hell_ was he going to do without Lori? Rick wasn't a fool; she was the primary parental figure in Carl's life. She was the one who went to parent teacher conferences. _She _was the one who helped Carl with his homework, the one who checked if their boy had brushed his teeth before bed. She usually the first and last person who Carl saw every day.

_How the hell do I even start to _think_ of filling her shoes?_ A tanned hand rose and scrubbed over his face, growing with ferocity as his thoughts continued to grow more and more antagonizing.

The only thing that he knew was that he couldn't carry on being a deputy, and he had already quit earlier on in the day.

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**Five hours earlier…**

"She's dead…She's—she's… Shane…My wife is dead."

Warm brown eyes were alit with sympathy and sorrow as the owner of the tawny orbs reached forward and pulled Rick into an embrace. Shane's rough hand cupped the back of the broken man's neck, cradling his best friend to him as much as he could without actually carrying him.

"…I am so sorry, Rick. If there was one man out there who didn't deserve this happening to him, it's you." Shane's free hand was busy rubbing soothing circles on Rick's back as he tried to calm him as much as possible in such a situation. "Lori didn't deserve going out like that…"

Rick pulled away, twisting his face in disgust. "Don't, man." It was far too soon for talk like that. With her death still fresh on his mind, talking about the nature of said death didn't bring the deputy any closer to strengthening his resolve and finding a way to break the news to Carl.

The widower stalked off to a nearby chair and sunk down into it, pressing the heels of his palms into his leaking eyes. The soft scuffle of shoes hitting the ground informed Rick that Shane had followed, but neither one of them said anything.

They sat for a good while, before Rick's head shot up, startling a nurse who was walking by.

"I'm quitting the force."

Shane was on his feet in a matter of seconds. "What?! Rick, you can't quit! How the hell are you going to provide for Carl? You didn't go to college, and you've worked there for almost half of your life!"

Rick was already shaking his head. "I can't. I can't keep working at such a high risk job. What if I was to go to work and get killed? Who would be there for Carl? How can I continue on working as a deputy when I know that there is a possibility of leaving Carl alone in this world? I am not putting him through this again!"

Shane's hands went to his hips and he got that stubborn set in his jaw, his eyes growing intense as they usually did in serious discussions. "We could get you a desk job. I'm sure that if we explained—."

"Paper pushers don't make as much as deputies, Shane. I have a son to provide for. I don't know what I'll do yet, but I know that I'll be making more than an office worker."

"Rick, I really don't think—."

"Officer Grimes?" A policewoman interrupted as she strode over to them, a soft expression on her face when she finally had their attention. "Your son has arrived, sir."

Rick inhaled deeply, and nodded lightly in thanks before turning to Shane for support.

The hardened gaze was gone, replaced with that of overwhelming kindness. "Come on, Rick. Let's go get your boy." He stepped forward and clapped a hand on the brunet's shoulder, rubbing lightly before steering him in the direction of what was sure to be the hardest conversation they were ever going to have.

* * *

Breaking the news to Carl had been like finding out for himself all over again. Nothing pained him more than hearing his son's grieving sobs, to feel the desperate tugging at the bottom of his shirt as his baby boy stared up at him with those wide, youthful blue eyes.

Eyes that pleaded for false tales. Eyes that pleaded for his mother.

Rick's hand stroked his son's hair lovingly, managing to pull himself well enough together that the mere thought of Lori didn't cause his breath to catch painfully in his throat.

_We'll get through this._ Rick thought, determinedly. _I don't know what kind of work I'll find that'll take someone who isn't college educated, but I'll manage. Not for me,_ he placed a small kiss on his son's forehead, _but for Carl._

**Preface/End.**

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**So yeah, you guys. Daryl will be in the next chapter. I hope you enjoyed.**


	2. One

**Thanks for the reviews, guys. Here's the next one. I found that Rick was much easier to write than Daryl, so our favorite Dixon may be a little OOC at times.**

**Oh yeah, I don't own TWD.**

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**Officer Friendly/One**

"It's already been a month, Rick. When are you going to get your head on straight and return to the Force?"

Rick sighed heavily, slowly raising his pint to his mouth and sipping at the cool froth that lingered near the glass' rim.

This wasn't the first time that Shane had broached the subject that week. Hell, it wasn't even the first time that _day_, that his best friend mentioned rejoining the police squad.

_Can't really blame him._ Rick grimaced, raising a work-worn hand to his shoulders and working on the muscles which were taut from misuse. _This past month hasn't really been the easiest I've had it…_

Turns out that finding a well paying job that _wasn't _life threatening was a pretty hard task. He's been doing odd jobs as of late, but the truth of the matter was that they wouldn't last nearly long enough for it to be worth the amount of effort Rick put into them. The long, arduous days of labor were quickly taking their toll on the ex-police officer, and his best friend could easily tell after taking one glance in his direction that it wasn't working out for him. However, regardless of how difficult the work was now…

"I'm not going back, Shane." Rick drawled, his southern accent thick with weariness. "I've said it time and again. I'm not putting Carl through that; not if I have any say in it."

Shane blinked, his jaw tightening as he briefly tore his gaze away from the exhausted male, scanning the entire bar as if it would help calm his ire. It seemed to have worked, for when the man finally returned his tawny orbs back to Rick, they seemed to have lost that wild look in them; a look that the ex-officer was beginning to associate with himself and his plans regarding his future.

"I just don't want this to hurt your career, bud." Shane said, nudging Rick's shoulder lightly. "I don't want you regretting anything later on in life, you know? Don't wait until it's too late to do something."

Rick aimed a small smile at Shane, grateful for this brief reprieve, and lifted his mug to his lips. He swallowed past the froth and straight into the cold liquid, the rest of the tension in his body slowly leaving as his muscles gradually relaxed. He wasn't sure, but he had a good feeling that the answers would be coming to him soon.

* * *

Whoever said that Merle Dixon couldn't be a successful businessman obviously didn't know his ass from his head.

Last Tuesday, he won a strip club in a game of poker. It's only been four days, and already he was starting to bring in more profit than the guy who gave it to him.

_Prolly 'cos the bitches he had in there were ugly as hell. Ain't a man in the south that wanna pay top dollar for women without asses or tits._ Merle smirked as he made his way over to the bar, choosing a comfy spot at the end with his back to a wall, ensuring that he'd be able to see all from such a vantage point.

"What'll you have, mister?" The bartender asked, ambling over to the redneck's end of the bar.

"Give me a couple 'a shots of the strongest stuff you've got." Usually Merle was a simple guy who'd take anything he could get; he wasn't picky when it came to having a bit of fun at the bar, but hell, he deserved to get properly wasted!

The bartender placed his drinks before him in a timely fashion—not nearly fast enough, where the eager redneck was concerned, but nevertheless, they made it to him. He took the first one immediately, tipping his head back and tossing it down the hatch. He didn't even cringe as the bitter flavor assaulted his tongue, the usual warmth found in liquor instead feeling like liquid fire as it slid down his pliant throat.

Running a strip club wasn't all that hard, sure, but it took a lot of thought—well, not really that, but common sense—to fix what the bastard before him had done to the place.

The first things to go were the strippers who had no cause to show their bodies off. *No rack, no stack. No rump, no chunk.*It was as simple as that. The shitty reality, however, was that more than half of the women that populated the poles of that joint were in piss poor conditions. Merle had been scavenging the streets of Atlanta, searching for women who fit the profile for a perfect stripper and desperate enough to take good ol' Merle up on his job offer.

_Damn economy is too good for more than half a dozen broads to actually take me up on it._ Merle frowned, scrubbing at his day old beard. He still had a few positions to fill, but it seemed that Atlanta's supply of desperate women was running low. _Maybe I should start branchin' out, checking smaller towns. Could find me a nice Cowgirl to entice money out of a few pricks' wallets._ He chuckled to himself as he reached out to take hold of his other shot, which had been waiting patiently for his attention for some time now.

"FUCK OFF, MAN! HE'S NOT LIKE THAT!"

The angry exclamation drew the attention of half of the bar, Merle included.

He glanced up from his shot to the other end of the bar, where three men stood, the one who looked like a ruffled Chihuahua evidently the one to have screamed. The second one was eying the first warily, holding a hand out as if he meant no harm. The third…

_Well hell, looks like I found myself a Cow_boy! Merle grinned toothily as he examined the specimen before him with careful eyes, determined to figure whether this would be worth his time. The man had a nice enough face; wasn't too old looking, not buff, but he wasn't some twink either.

"Calm down, Shane. He obviously wasn't going to throw himself at me if I said no, were ya?" The Cowboy spoke up, his voice velvet soft yet had a hint of steel. That was a voice that demanded attention, no matter what words were being uttered. His aquamarine hues flicked over to the second man, who was obviously the odd man out in the little group.

_The man really knows how to handle the attention he's gettin'… Not really one for men, but I'm sure he'll fit in nicely. Hell, this could get me more customers._ Merle sneered to himself as he tossed his second shot back and climbed to his feet in one smooth move.

He had business to conduct.

* * *

**Two months later…**

That woman was making eyes at him again.

Daryl Dixon leaned forward to inspect what her station wagon had going on under the hood as he shifted from foot to foot, his jaw clenching ever so slightly as the female's penetrating gaze stubbornly clung to him. No matter how he shifted or attempted to avoid the persistent orbs, he was hyperaware of their presence on his person.

He allowed her to continue for a few moments before his agitation levels outweighed his care for the customer service policy.

"Listen woman, you got somethin' you want ta say?" He growled, tossing his grease rag onto the ground as he turned to face the petite female. "'Cos I'm about one second away from slammin' this hood shut and tellin' you ta get the fuck out my shop!"

The woman jumped half a second before her whole body tensed, her jaw tightening as she slowly lowered her gaze.

_Damn it to hell. Are those fuckin' tears? _Daryl sighed heavily and carded a hand through his limp hair, his eyes avoiding the woman entirely as he searched for something to placate her. "…'s nothin' wrong with your ride anyways."

"…I—I know." The woman took the smallest of steps forward, slowly gaining the courage to raise her gaze to meet his once more. "My name is Carol Peletier, and I actually just wanted to have the chance to talk to you, Mr. Dixon…"

Daryl's brow rose at the title given to him, but made no move to comment or respond. He merely crossed his arms over his chest and gave the woman his complete attention.

The woman waited a couple of seconds before pressing on, taking a few more steps closer to the mechanic. She managed to pull off a look of uncertainty and determination.

"You may not remember but that man who you put in the hospital last month… That was my husband—."

"I ain't payin' for some asshole's hospital bills." Daryl interrupted, his expression hardening ever so slightly. He remembered that particular piece-of-shit-waste-of-space bastard. He had made the mistake of sitting next to Daryl at the bar and had wagged his jaw something awful the entire time. By the end of the night, the mechanic had had enough of the man's bullshit and proceeded to kick the shit out of him in hopes of knocking some sense into the white trash's thick skull.

So yeah, he remembered the guy, but if this broad thought that she could come into his shop, looking all vulnerable and ask for money, she had another thing coming. He was a _Dixon._ There was no way in hell that—.

"I'm not here for money." Carol's soft voice broke through his train of thoughts, a ghost of a smile stretching upon her lips. "I'm here to thank you, actually. It's because of you that they found out what Ed… My ex-husband was doing to my daughter and I."

Fuck. It didn't take a genius to see what the woman was hinting at, nor was it a great stretch to see where she was going with this. If it were something as simple as a 'thank you', she'd have brought this daughter with her. Daryl forced himself to tune in to her little story, one that he wasn't unfamiliar with.

"…so do you have any plans after work, Mr. Dixon?" The woman was suddenly in front of him, blinking up at him with those large doe eyes of hers.

"Yeah." _Pretty bold, lady, but I'm not interested._ _Better to nip this one in the bud._ He allowed his most charming Dixon smirk to spread across his lips as he finally brought himself to meet her gaze head on. "I'm drivin' up to Atlanta. My brother's got a strip club that I've been meaning to try out."

**One/End**

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***No rack, no stack refers to having no boobs. Don't have any and you don't get a stack of money. No rump, no chunk refers to having no butt. Don't have one and you won't be getting chunk change.**

**Hehe anyways, thanks for reading. The next chapter is when Daryl and Rick meet.**


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